The Secret to Happiness

Eastern Bluebird

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness."

These words were enshrined in the American Declaration of Independence. Of the three unalienable Rights that were explicitly called out we understand the right to life for living and breathing beings fairly well -- though there have been clear disagreements about at what stage those unborn who do not yet breathe should be afforded the right to life.

With respect to Liberty, we understand it well when it is personal liberty -- but too often fail to understand it adequately when self-restraint is required to permit others liberty in things we personally believe they should not do.

It seems, when Thomas Jefferson, wrote these words he believed himself to have a good grasp of these first two. He may have even believed that everyone would understand them the same and with the same intensity as he felt.

For the last one he clearly knew that happiness is elusive. He avoided saying that humanity has the unalienable right to be happy. Rather, he said we have to right to try to catch happiness and if you can catch it then hold on to it.

When I was a child, I wanted to catch a bird. I don't remember if it was my mom or dad -- but one of them said, "The secret to catching a bird is to put salt on its tail.  If you can put salt on its tail you can catch it.!" I thought, "Well, I can't get close enough with a saltshaker so maybe if I put salt on bread and threw it in the yard it would somehow immobilize the birds." (I guess I didn't in those exact words as "immobilize" was probably not in my vocabulary -- but that was my thought process.) Clearly, the plan didn't succeed, and it got some laughs from my dad.

The expression is a very old European one -- at least five hundred years. A variant of the Simple Simon nursery rhyme included the lines:

He went to catch a dicky bird, 

And thought he could not fail, 

Because he had a little salt

To put upon its tail.

If catching a bird is a metaphor for catching happiness, then the bluebird — the most elusive of them all — becomes the perfect symbol. 

 Even before Maurice Maeterlinck's L'Oiseau Bleu, there were allusions to a bluebird representing hope or renewal in Chinese and Native American folklore. If you have watched bluebirds for any time, you will note they are very alert. Chasing one to catch it would be fruitless. To catch one would require somehow alluring it and trapping it.

So, it is with happiness. While we have the right to pursue it the pursuit rarely catches the prey. Like the bluebird, we catch sight of happiness for a moment before it leaves us to entice someone else into the chase.

Since we might only catch the bluebird by traps and tricks -- perchance that is the way to capture happiness. 

When we pursue happiness in the common way -- we seek for ways to do things we want to do or that we believe we want to do. We go to amusement parks. We go fishing, camping, or golfing.  We get ourselves treated to some form of pampering, like spas or cruises. We sit down for a whole two hours with a good book. And, in those moments, we may experience calmness, laughter or exhilaration. In other words, in those moments we caught sight of the bluebird.

Conversely, when we experience unhappiness in the common way -- we find ourselves in situations we don't want to be in or doing things we just don't want to do. We have to pay taxes. We have to sit in the waiting room at a doctor's appointment. We have to work late even though we won't get approved for overtime. We have to take out the trash or wash the dishes. And in those moments, we experience frustration, annoyance, or pain. In other words, in those moments we not only don't see the bluebird, we wonder if we ever will again.

With those two observations we can conclude: "We do what we want, avoid what we don’t, and grudgingly do what we feel forced to do." Happiness comes from transforming the third category!

The Secret to Happiness is withing our grasp. With this truth we can lure and trap the bluebird. All we have to do is to ONLY do what we want to do and NEVER do anything you don't want to do -- and then we will be happy.  But, of course, that is unrealistic.  When we get off the cruise ship, we have to go back to work to pay for the fun we just had.

Remember though, we are going to trap the bluebird.  

The secret is reorienting the mind so that you WANT to do those things you feel forced to do or you find ways NOT to FEEL FORCED to do what you don't want to do. You must choose one of those paths for each thing you don't want to do. If you do you will have captured the bluebird of happiness.

It works. I have tried it. It isn't always easy to find reasons to want to do things I feel forced to do - but if I must do them or go through them then if I look, I can find value for me or for others in the experience. I can't kick the can down the road and say, "well, I don't feel forced to do this so I'm not gonna" when I know there will be a negative consequence for that choice later that I will REALLY not want to do or experience.

The bluebird stays longest not with those who pursue it, but with those who make a home where it wants to land.

"Hey! Bluebird. I'm not chasing you but please feel free to stay."

 

A Family of Chairs

Rural Ladderback Chair

Some time ago I wrote a blog about Genealogical Treasures. In it I mused over the various trinkets and treasures that my wife and I have become stewards of.  One of those treasures is this chair and its five siblings. The chair is nut colored very light weight but sturdy chair. Most likely it is made of Tennessee Hickory. 

I first encountered these chairs decades ago while enjoying a small dessert of peaches, angel food cake, and iced cream served to us on fine china in the Nashville apartment of Uncle Jack and Aunt Alma. (Aunt Alma was the sister of my father-in-law's grandmother.) We sat at a nicely placed dining room table in one of these chairs.

Jack and Alma later moved to Carthage, TN to a smaller apartment where they lived out their long lives. Jack and Alma had no children, so as the various household items and properties were settled my father-in-law inherited the chairs. A few years ago, he and my mother-in-law, too, downsized and no longer had room for the chairs, so they passed the chairs along to their daughter and by extension to me.

I immediately noticed that the chairs, though of the same pattern, were each unique. There was no maker's mark and factory uniformity. Every rung and slat was slightly different. They were clearly handmade.  

I asked my father-in-law about the history of the chairs. As he understood it, Jack's parents, Charles Gordon and Genie Craig, had them when they were setting up housekeeping soon after they married.

Through some genealogical digging, I discovered that Jack's parents were married in May of 1901. That would mean the chairs were probably obtained around 1901 or 1902 making them about 125 years old. 

The life of a chair is often harsh. They are sat on, leaned back in, dragged across the floors and if children are around -- climbed on, scrawled, and occasionally carve on. Ladder-back chairs, especially, wind up on porches growing weathered and worn. 

These chairs lived a charmed life. 

Charles and Genie were both in their thirties when they married and only had one child, Jack -- born in 1905.  With only one child around them with any frequency and no indoor pets in any of the homes they occupied -- they all look nearly as new as they appeared when they were first wrought from the hickory of Maury County, TN. 

Curiosity got the best of me.  Who made these chairs? Could I even find out?  

Of course, since they weren't signed, I could never know for certain - but I have a hunch.  Handmade chairs could have been purchased from local stores or from people you knew. So, I did a quick look through the census documents of Maury County, TN.  I suspected that the carpenter would have lived near either Charles or Genie - and since it was a household good, it would more likely have been near Genie.

Just one page before Genie and her family in the 1900 Census (84A Sheet #7, 7th District, Maury, TN) was a young man named Andrew Cummings who was six years younger than Genie listed as a Carpenter in the house of his father.

Maybe the newly married Gordon's purchased the chairs. Maybe young Andrew or his parents provided the chairs to them as wedding gifts. We can never know, but it is fun to imagine.

There is an interesting twist to this story.  These chairs came to my wife through her father's family. But his family was not the original owners of the chairs. The original owner was Genie Craig. Genie is the great-granddaughter of Joseph Matthews. Joseph is my fifth great grandfather - meaning that the original owner is my second cousin.

It is as if the chairs knew the story long before I did, and simply guided me toward it.

 

Coal in the Veins

Ruins of a Company Store - Nuttallburg, WV

A year ago in May, my wife and I went on an American Revolutionary tour. We visited Revolutionary war related places like Cowpens and Ninety-Six, South Carolina, Lexington, Concord, and Boston, Massachusetts, Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, and Williamsburg, Virginia. We also visited other places on our tour that were not associated with the Revolutionary War.  

One of those places was New River Gorge National Park and Preserve. We visited there for the reasons so many visit - because of the scenery, but we also visited because of my family connection to the place.

 During many summers as a child and teen the family would make a trip to visit my paternal grandparents who were living in Gallipolis, Ohio. While there we would visit aunts and uncles in Crown City, Chesapeake and Rome along Route 7. We would visit various family properties where my grandpa had rented out a house or trailer or had contracted some tobacco sharecropping. 

I haven't tracked which properties were his paternal verses his maternal family's properties and which ones he may have purchased along the way. I also am no longer certain where all the properties were.  It wasn't anything important to me as a child and my father sold most of the properties when he moved my grandmother down to live with him in the 1990s.

After grandpa's sister died and he had retired my grandparents moved to Chesapeake into her smaller house. His house in Gallipolis had sat across 1st Ave from the Ohio River, but the house in Chesapeake sat on the Ohio just a short walk from the bridge connecting to Huntington, West Virginia. From the back yard we could watch and hear the coal being loaded onto barges.

At the time I did not know my grandfather's direct connection to coal.  He was an employee of the Corp of Engineers working on the Locks and Dams along the Ohio in the region. I simply thought it was the riverboats he was interested in.  My grandmother would talk of showboats like the River Queen, the Majestic, and even the Cotton Blossom that would bring musical entertainment along the river. So it wasn't the coal I was focused on -- but I think he was.

He had worked for a short time in the coal industry.  It was a family business. He went to work in the mid-1920s with his cousin, Edward G. Blume at the Number 2 Coal Mine at Kaymoor, WV which now sits within the New River Gorge National Park. My grandpa's grandmother, Elizabeth Jane Blume Wyle, had lent Edward's father, George Morgan Blume, money as part of his capital for executing the Fayette Coal and Coke Company around 1900. 

George Blume was in the coal business because of a chance encounter his brother, Jacob, had with John Nuttall. Jacob was operating a family hotel near Keeneys creek when John Nuttall entered and asked about the source of the coal Jacob was using for his hotel. That conversation led to a partnership. Jacob's mother (my third great-grandmother), in a letter to her daughter and son-in-law described Jacob's newfound success as having "received the wine of life." Among other things, Jacob operated the Nuttalburg Company Store. (Only the foundation remains as pictured above.)

John Nuttall brought industrial coalmining to the New River Gorge - establishing the community of Nuttallburg, now a ghost town residing within and managed by the New River Gorge National Park and Preserve. He also married Jacob's sister, Martha, making the entire operation a Blume family enterprise.

When I heard the coal pouring into the riverboat barges, I heard a noise and saw an operation. When my grandpa was sharing those moments with me, he saw a part of our family's connection to the region and an industry that played an important role in family he personally knew. Through a bit of research, I can now appreciate what he saw in the moment.

Old Poems

 

A Very Old Poem

A few weeks ago I blogged about my poor relationship with poems.  I often don't understand them at the depth intended by the original writer. I attribute it to having shallower feelings than most poets. 

While true, there was a brief moment in my life when I made an attempt at writing some poems. I was alone with my thoughts often.  I had graduated college. I was living on my own — alone.  In that space, I found some time to wrestle with some thoughts (and maybe feelings) and I put them into poems — because I wanted to try to do it. Aside from school assignments, I believe I have written only three poems longer than a couple of couplets. All of them were written in that period between leaving home and getting married.  

Maybe that says something. I was more emotional. Or, I was more pensive. Or, I was more frequently alone with my thoughts. Or, I just had more time. I don't know — but I ran across them again — so I will share them here.

Here is a poem during that period that I wrote after returning from a business trip.  I was struck by the ubiquity of solitude in the midst of crowds.

Can we Learn?

Sitting in an Airport
The room's full of strangers
Don't you say a word ----
You'll stir up dangers.

There's a man on the left

A woman right of you

To the left stares ----

Ans she is staring, too.

What's this fear within us 

that keeps us stuck inside?

Is it true that ----

inside we must reside?

Reach out and be a friend

Show others that you care

Take the time to see---

Time's just too short to stare.

I'd like to say that this poem was a catalyst for opening me up to having conversations with people I did not know and may never encounter again. In a way, it might have. If nothing else, it helped resolve the silence as a universal challenge and not one to attribute to myself alone.

The second poem is a bit longer and a little whimsical. I don't recall the exact event that may have started me thinking about this one — though it still resonates like the first poem as a universal truth. Enjoy!

One Wish

It starts as in tradition

strolling at the place

where the land meets the ocean.

When there before me in the sand

I see and lantern

engraved "Rub me with your hand"

Suddenly I wonder

Could this be true?

Then my pulse pounds like thunder.

Turning to the right

and turning to the left

there is no one in sight

With this quite clear

I begin to rub the lamp

And, yes, a genie did appear!

He spoke quite succinctly.

"My name is Ozbli.

You may have one wish that I shall grant thee."

"What shall it be young lad?

Many wishes have I granted

most of which turned out sad."

"Is it great wealth you desire?

To many I have granted this.

To what do you aspire?"

Much amazed, I began to tremble.

Shaking and stalling I asked, 

"What other wishes can you assemble?"

Boldly he spoke aloud.

"A thousand requested; A thousand granted.

Of this I am quite proud."

Wishes for fame and glory, 

power and might, sexual prowess

Ah!! that's a story!

"Young man, what is it now?

Make your wish and 

instantly, I'll grant it that's a vow!"

I wasn't sure just how to act

"I want to make a wish 

that will bring only good! That's a fact."

"I ask you new friend

what wish have you granted 

that's brought only good to the end?"

For this question he had not planned.

"A thousand wishes I have granted

but good results are counted on one hand."

"A peasant asked for his mother's health.

An old man wished for peace with his children

Most, though ask for wealth."

"You ask many things

Come now, come now

What is it your desire brings?"

Stalling no more I gave my best

"Sir genie my wish is this:

Remove mankind's selfishness."

The genie gave me a long, long stare.

"A thousand wishes; a thousand granted

with not a one does this compare."

"Granting this wish would be a pleasure.

Such a miracle would indeed

make this world wonderful beyond measure."

"But try as I might this wish to grant

I takes too much to bring it about.

I'm sorry to say - I just can't.

You see my son

to grant this wish it

takes much more than one."

Then in his eyes I saw a tear

"Good luck, young lad" is all he said.

And he began to disappear.

So sorry was I to see him leave.

It can't be done!?!? It can't be done!!!?

For this fact we should all grieve.

Bloodlines, Books, and Bonds

DNA Closeness

Genealogy is an interesting pursuit. In it we chase bits of information about family members in books, census data, land transactions, birth and death certificates, tax records, military records, newspapers, and bits of other things that may have been archived in family heirlooms or in public libraries. These things tell stories of the lives of our ancestors. We reconstruct connections to siblings, children, cousins, parents, and even close friends and neighbors. Once a genealogy bug bites - the genealogical work extends from their own family networks to friends and then to complete strangers.

We do it for different reasons. Some do it because they enjoy the chase. Some do it for a sense of pride in the accomplishments of their ancestors. Some do it because they long for connections to something that feels significant. Some do it in hopes of understanding themselves better. Some do it for the opportunity to be part of a lineage or heritage society such as the Sons of the American Revolution, of Daughters of the American Revolution, Sons of Confederate Veterans, United Daughters of the Confederacy, Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War, and Daughters of Union Veterans of the Civil War, The Mayflower Society, The Jamestown Society, or even the National Society Magna Carta Dames and Barons. And some, like me, do it primarily to understand how individuals - who happen to have been traceable relatives - interacted with the world in their place in history.

My father and grandfather were members of the Sons of the American Revolution, but I have never applied. As I have traced the available records I have come to believe that I could also be eligible for Sons of both Union and Confederacy, both the Mayflower and Jamestowne societies, and the Magna Carta society. Though stepping through all the paperwork and society scrutiny to prove it may be too grueling and of little more value to me than just believing it. 

For the Mayflower, for instance, I can confidently link to a 10th great-grandfather, Digory Priest, who sailed on the Mayflower to the New World. And with reasonable confidence (lineage shown in the image) I connect to a twelfth great grandfather and grandmother, William and Mary Brewster.  

Though the Brewsters are my grandparents, I will inherit on average only 0.01% of their DNA and I might inherit 0.02% from Great Grandpa Priest. While I chase their life stories, I can lay claim to their cultural contributions to my life experiences but very little of my genetic tendencies. 

For the prestige of it, maybe I would rather focus on one of my eleventh great grandfathers - John Holles who was an Earl (1st Earl of Clare). I could just as easily look at a much less prestigious ninth great-grandfather, William Covington, who arrived in the Colonies as an indentured servant. Since, his circumstances were more humble - I might mention he only contributed 0.05% of my DNA. My eight great-grandfather, Christopher Robinson, I will brag about since he was quite successful and accomplished. He contributed 0.10% of my DNA. But since he was a slaveholder - I might also note it was ONLY 0.10%. 

I think I'll just skip over Charles Gorsuch, Jr., an 8th great-grandfather who was also a slaveowner, and move to a sixth great-grandfather, Abijah Stephens, who was a righteous Quaker - sacrificing his family farm to the patriotic cause at Valley Forge and releasing his one slave within days of the budding Nation's declaration that "All men are created equal..." 

I could look nostalgically on a fifth great-grandfather, Francis McCown, with whom I share 0.78% of his DNA (and his Y-Chromosome). He came to the frontier of Virginia as a Scotsman from Ireland to settle the west for the country's westward expansion.

I share about 1.6% of any fourth great-grandfather's DNA. What part of the life of my fourth great-grandfather, Oliver Brown, do I want to emphasize?  His heroic participation as an artillery captain in the American Revolution or his leadership in a riot on the Bowling Green in New York City? Maybe, I would rather speak of his entrepreneurial adventures in Concord where, um, he went bankrupt and used the juridical limits of the new Nation's State borders to escape and restart his life in Western Virginia? 

The genetic relationship of us to our prized ancestors diminishes quickly. My connection to William Brewster, for example, may have contributed a little over 0.01% of his DNA to me but he also may have contributed none. He has to share contribution with 8,191 other twelfth great-grandfathers.

A Magna Carta ancestor, though traceable to me by every document I uncover, is unlikely to share any genetic similarity (footnote 1). In fact, I am more likely to share measurable DNA with a stranger I pass in the grocery store who, unknown to both of us, is my fifth cousin thrice removed.

Genealogy remains fun for the thrill of the search. It continues to provide reasons to socialize with others you share interests with. It can provide additional layers to entertainment and clarity when we are able to travel to places our ancestors walked. It certainly provides opportunities to learn where history and humanity interact in the eaches - those small, individual moments - along the way. As such it can provide guidance to us as we walk in our place of history.

But, in the end, the genetics show us that we are all interconnected. Bloodlines are meaningless, books are revealing, but bonds are what we make them.

1. Unless you are a male and he is the Y-line ancestor or you are a female and she is a mitochondrial-line ancestor.

 

Bullets and Bananas

A Bullet and a Banana

Almost 30 years ago a banana was growing in the tropical regions of the Americas.  It made its way into the lunch bag of a Physicist working for the United States Air Force. The vast majority of bananas that make it into a lunch bag are eaten. But this particular banana sat on a desk patiently waiting to be consumed by someone, if not the one who brought it to work in the bag - but no one did.  And so it sat.

In the airconditioned offices there was little moisture and the banana was far from the door where fruit flies might have entered.  The banana simply waited, and waited, and waited. As it waited the dry air slowly evaporated its moisture.

The Physicist was intrigued.  How long would the banana last? He named the banana Bob and left it atop a file cabinet.  Office tomfoolery gave Bob a tombstone.  Bob, the banana, became an office topic of discussion long before artist Mauizio Cattelan taped one to a wall and sold it for $120,000.

When people get together socially, in families, in work environments, play happens.  Whether it is Puma with his landscaping pals or the Physicist and me while waiting on weapon analysis computations to finish, it happens.

Six or seven years before the banana, the Physicist was playing with the base of a 20mm projectile while standing beside a filing cabinet. He often spun it like a top, while we discussed approaches to our next project. Over time we developed various ways to spin the top.  First there was the simple one handed two finger twist.  Then came the two-handed opposing thumbs spin (my favorite). Finally, we attached a string to it and spun it like the wooden tops of his childhood.

Then came the question.  How fast is it spinning? We guessed at first, but we were not going to be satisfied with a guess.  How could we find out?  We threw out several suggestions then he asked - how would Newton have done it? I suggested dropping a drop of water on the top and measuring the maximum distance it traveled.  We derived the formula for such an experiment.

The Formula

We carefully dropped the water on top then measured the diameter of the circle the water formed on the top of the file cabinet. We took several measurements and averaged them (both of the circle and of different spins). We came up with speeds ranging over 6,000 rpms with our fingers and up to 10,000 rpms with the string technique. He didn't believe it. What error could there be that would make it err toward being too big?

I proposed a few.  There was a lip on the top of the top that could provide some lift to the water.  The top does travel so maybe it is traveling too much during the period of interaction; but it seemed like those events would be negligible since the interaction was occurring in milliseconds.

Finally, we found someone with a strobe meter.  We put a white strip of paper on one side of the top, spun it and measured it with the strobe while simultaneously applying the water method. The differences were within 400 rpms. The technique was a complete success.

The Physicist retired from the USAF around 2006 and then started working for a Defense contractor.  He put in another 20 years there.  I started some part-time work with the same company. Just before he retired again, he handed me the banana and the bullet.

Guitar Poetry - circa Early Adolescence

 

My Poetic Magnum Opus

I'm a reasonably good writer.  I'll never win a Pulitzer Prize or even publish a book that others will want to read for pleasure or great insight, but I can put ideas on paper (or e-paper) in a way that communicates, flows, and sometimes entertains. Occasionally, my words can even evoke a level of feeling! 

Because my feelings are mild and usually under subjection, my words often don't resonate deeply. So - you might imagine that poetry is well beyond my reach. I frequently fail to understand the poetry of others; and, I have discovered that failing is precisely because I am trying to understand the poetry instead of letting it evoke some sort of feeling. 

Consequently, I haven't written much poetry. I tried my hand at one when I proposed to my wife. She kept it, so she at least appreciated the attempt. Other than that, attempts have been scarce, at best. So, this old piece of poetry that I was required to write in school as a child - is of great value due to its rarity if not quality.  I don't know the exact date of writing it - but I was somewhere between 11 and 13 years of age. 

The assignment was simple. "Write a rhyming poem and illustrate it.  We will do something special with it when everyone is done." 

When we were done, we tore around the edges of the paper and charred them with a lighter.  We then glued and shellacked it to a board to make a plaque or wall hanging.  The finished product is pictured above. 

As I child, I fully believed I had failed at the assignment. I struggled just to find words to rhyme.  I wasn't particularly good at drawing. What can I even write about? I had guitar lessons this weekend - can I find things that will rhyme with guitar?  Yeah! "Tar" rhymes with it. I think I can draw a guitar. Problem solved.  Let's see:

The Guitar

I once had a guitar,

and droped (sic) it in tar.

It looked very bad,

and I got so mad.

But still that was the end of the guitar.

I enjoyed the guitar lessons at the time - but I wasn't progressing. I practiced, but I didn't seem to be improving. I now believe, as I married a musical person and raised two children who learned to play instruments well, that I have both a limit in my musical hearing and I struggle at memorization of any kind. For my musical hearing limitation, I thought in terms of a melody - not chords and a beat.  Anyway - I was entering a love/hate relationship with my guitar. That relationship shows in the poem.

How early I began my go-to loss management style!

                I lost something. 

                I felt the loss. 

                Feeling it doesn't change the situation. 

                Let's move on.

On the back of the plaque are impressions of another childhood action.  I think I was 12 when I got a pocketknife as a Christmas gift.  It had an awl as one the blades. I drilled a hole in the upper right-hand corner of the plaque with that awl.  I also stabbed the back of the board many, many times. I did it so many times and so hard that the tip of the knife blade is slightly bent to this very day. I think there was any specific rage associated with the stabbing - but it was certainly a bit of my boyhood violence preserved in wood.

I need to blog. For today, what should I log? I have this old plaque - what else do I lack? Just something to get out of this fog!